Volume One: The Dragon Rises from the Wilds Chapter Fifty-Four: The Deer Calls Across the Floating Waters

So that is Deer Cry Mountain?

Yu Ye reined in his horse, halting to take in the view.

Rounding a bend in the mountain path, the obstructing rocks and trees fell away. Three or five miles ahead stood a mountain of sheer rock, a hundred yards tall. From afar, its shape resembled a young deer raising its head in song—especially the head, body, and tail, which were strikingly lifelike.

Yu Ye retrieved a piece of animal hide from his breast.

According to the map on the hide, this was indeed Deer Cry Mountain.

At the foot of the mountain lay a hollow. Trees grew lushly there, houses clustered together; the calls of chickens and dogs were audible, and curling threads of cooking smoke drifted skyward like mist.

This was Pingshui Town.

He remembered that Old Feng, before his death, had mentioned his valuables were stashed in Pingshui Town at Deer Cry Mountain. As long as he followed the secret markings on the map, he could find them. At the time, Yu Ye hadn't paid much attention, but now all clues rested on this scrap of hide.

He scrutinized it carefully.

On the palm-sized hide, a slanted sketch of a mountain had been drawn; if not for the label "Deer Cry Mountain," one might have mistaken it for a dog. The "dog's" head—meant to be the deer's—was depicted with surprising detail. Not far from Deer Cry Mountain, a few houses were drawn; this must be Pingshui Town, with its crossroad, a large tree, and a courtyard. Additionally, an arrow looped around the mountain, beside which "Beimang Village" was written. Beyond this, there seemed no other hidden markings.

Yu Ye flipped the hide over; nothing more revealed itself.

The map Old Feng left was little better than a child's doodle—how was he to glean the location of the hidden fortune from it?

He glanced at the sky, then urged his horse forward.

Last night he had slept in the wild and encountered some disciples of North Qi Mountain. Though he hadn't revealed himself, he spent half the night deep in thought. A mountain boy, burdened daily with life and death, obsessed with vengeance, and still forced to worry over the shifting fortunes of the Great Marsh Sect—truly a hard lot. When all else failed, he could only take one step at a time. Now, having arrived at Pingshui Town by Deer Cry Mountain, confusion was still his only companion.

Crossing a stone bridge, he entered the town.

Few pedestrians walked the street, but from every house drifted the scent of food.

It was midday.

He followed the road for a hundred paces or so, reaching a crossroad. To the south, few houses stood; to the west, dwellings crowded together as the street cut through the town; to the north, several independent courtyards stood apart. Between them grew an ancient tree, its leafy crown casting broad shade—an eye-catching sight.

Yu Ye turned his horse north.

In moments he reached the old tree.

Beneath its shadow sat a tea stand, tended by a man who, with business slow at noon, dozed by himself.

Around the tree clustered five or six residences—clearly homes of the wealthy. Yu Ye wondered if any matched the courtyard sketched on Old Feng’s map.

He put away the animal hide and dismounted.

"Well now, young master, thirsty? How about a bowl of tea?"

The man woke from his doze and greeted him.

Yu Ye approached, took the tea, and sipped. It tasted faintly of herbs, with a slight sweetness.

"This is our local medicinal tea, with licorice added—sweet and cooling, perfect for the heat," the man explained with a friendly face, smiling as he asked, "You're not from around here, are you? Visiting friends or family?"

"Looking for family," Yu Ye replied absently as he sipped, scanning the surrounding courtyards. "Brother, do you know who lives in these houses?"

"Of course I do!" the man nodded, then shook his head. "Except for one courtyard that’s always empty—I’ve never seen the owner."

"Which one is that?"

"That one, down the alley," the man pointed.

Yu Ye followed his gesture—twenty or thirty yards away lay a narrow lane. He set down his tea, took his horse, and made for the alley.

It ran between two residences.

At the mouth of the lane, he suddenly remembered he’d drunk the tea without paying—and the tea-seller, kindly enough, hadn’t even asked for it.

Through the alley, he found another standalone courtyard. Its main gate was locked, the lock thick with dust, weeds growing wild on the steps, and a lone sapling by the entrance.

Yu Ye eyed the little tree, quietly thanking his luck.

Old Feng’s map showed a few houses and a tree. By that guess, he’d sought out the old tree and inquired after the local households, only to stumble upon this very spot.

An empty courtyard, a small tree at the gate—was this not the scene drawn on the hide?

He tethered his horse to the tree, took his sword in hand, and circled the gate. Seeing no one about, he leapt, clearing the wall and landing lightly in the yard.

Once, he’d envied Chen Qi and Bai Zhi for moving as shadows and wind—now he, too, was light as a swallow, able to leap and soar. And yet, what good had it done? He lived daily on edge, never knowing peace.

The courtyard was overgrown with weeds. The side rooms were thick with dust, clearly long unused. The main house, facing south, had its doors wide open—and muddy footprints tracked everywhere.

Yu Ye frowned.

The prints were fresh; someone had been here.

Was this truly Old Feng’s place, or had he misread the map? Or had someone else, like him, climbed the wall?

He paused at the door, surveying the silent courtyard.

It was spacious, weeds aside—the well, trellis, and pool all bespoke wealth, though the rockery in the flowerbed was ugly and ill-proportioned.

Yu Ye stepped into the house.

The three main rooms were open, no partitions—nothing but dust and chaotic footprints. His hopes sank; he tapped the ground with his sword sheath.

He wasn’t ready to give up.

If he was wrong, or failed to find Old Feng’s hoard, how could he face his family?

Perhaps it was hidden underground.

He tapped all the floor tiles and even probed with his spiritual sense—still nothing.

He had no choice but to try the side rooms.

As he turned to leave, he froze.

Suddenly, there was a thud outside—the sound of someone landing—followed by hurried footsteps. Several figures burst into the house, bowstrings twanging.

Yu Ye, caught off guard, barely dodged, but still cried out as a cold arrow struck him. Clutching his chest, he staggered back to the wall and slid to the floor. “Jiang Xiong…” he gasped.

Five burly men had charged in, each with a crossbow; after one volley, they drew long knives and rushed him. Another man came in behind, surprised to see Yu Ye—he called out, “Hold on… it’s you?”

The five halted, but kept their blades raised, murderous intent clear.

Yu Ye sat on the ground, clutching his chest—an arrow shaft protruded from his hand—his wounds grave, his eyes wide with disbelief as he stared at the man who’d spoken.

The newcomer’s neck was crooked, giving him a strange look; his fierce features were unchanged. This was Jiang Xiong—the man who had forced Yu Ye to join him, robbed graves together, been imprisoned by the Yan family, and finally, for betraying his companions, had been strangled by Old Feng with an iron chain.

Jiang Xiong, too, stared in astonishment.

He strode forward, glaring, and demanded, “Why is it you, boy? Where’s Old Feng?”

He’d mistaken him for Old Feng!

Yu Ye, as though scared witless, stammered, “You’re dead… are you a ghost…?”

“Oh?”

Jiang Xiong stroked his beard, then burst out laughing. “Ha! If I hadn’t faked my death, how could I have fooled Old Feng and the Yan family? But…”

He shook his crooked neck, his smile fading to a snarl. “Old Feng nearly wrung my neck—today, I’ll settle the score.” He looked Yu Ye up and down, suspicious. “I heard someone came here and took it for Old Feng returning. I know he had this place in Pingshui Town and have been waiting with my brothers ever since. Didn’t you escape with him from the Yan family? Why are you here alone? Did he send you to fetch the treasure?” His face turned vicious. “Boy, tell me honestly—where’s Old Feng’s treasure? Where is he?”

Yu Ye slumped against the wall.

Before him stood five fierce men and Jiang Xiong, back from the dead. Blades gleamed at his nose, their chill sharp and murderous.

Yu Ye’s eyes shut.

Sometimes, what you see with your own eyes is not the truth. So it was then, so it was now. Jiang Xiong’s feigned death had fooled not only Old Feng and the Yan family, but Yu Ye as well. For the sake of Old Feng’s treasure, Jiang Xiong’s cunning and ruthlessness were beyond compare.

Bang!

Impatient, Pan Yuan kicked Yu Ye.

“Boy, say another word and I’ll cut you down!”

Yu Ye shrank back, glaring.

Pan Yuan exchanged glances with his companions, sneering, “This kid, I picked him up on the road—tricked him into risking his life, but he’s luckier than I thought. He must know where Old Feng is. I’ll have my fun with him.”

To them, Yu Ye was just a poor mountain boy—now in their hands, his fate was theirs to decide.

“Well, well—still holding a sword?”

Yu Ye’s left hand clutched his chest; to his right lay his blue steel sword.

Pan Yuan’s eyes lit up as he snatched it, drawing it with a ring of steel. “Xuanhuang Sect… a Daoist’s sword? Boy, how did you come by such a fine weapon? Have you ever used it to kill?”

Before he could finish, someone slowly stood up.

Though five sharp blades pressed close, Yu Ye ignored them, letting his hand fall from his chest. He tossed aside the arrow—his chest unscathed.

Pan Yuan froze, eyes wide, as the sword was snatched from his grasp. He and his companions recoiled in shock.

“What trickery is this…?”

“I am here to kill—”